On these golden days the convoy started from the Faubourg Saint-Denis at half-past four, and arrived in style at l’Isle-Adam by ten o’clock at night. And then Pierrotin, proud of his run, which necessitated the hire of extra horses, would say, “We have made a good pace today!” To enable him to do nine leagues in five hours with his machinery, he did not stop, as the coaches usually do on this road, at Saint-Brice, Moisselles, and la Cave.
The Silver Lion inn occupied a plot of ground running very far back. Though the front to the Rue Saint-Denis has no more than three or four windows, there was at that time, on one side of the long yard, with the stables at the bottom, a large house backing on the wall of the adjoining property. The entrance was through an arched way under the first floor, and there was standing-room here for two or three coaches. In 1822, the booking-office for all the lines that put up at the Silver Lion was kept by the innkeeper’s wife, who had a book for each line; she took the money, wrote down the names, and good-naturedly accommodated passengers’ luggage in her vast kitchen. The travelers were quite satisfied with this patriarchally free-and-easy mode of business. If they came too early, they sat down by the fire within the immense chimney-place, or lounged in the passage, or went to the café de l’Echiquier, at the corner of the street of that name, parallel to the Rue d’Enghien, from which it is divided by a few houses only.
Quite early in the autumn of that year, one Saturday morning, Pierrotin, his hands stuffed through holes in his blouse and into his pockets, was standing at the front gate of the Silver Lion, whence he had a perspective view of the inn kitchen, and beyond it of the long yard and the stables at the end, like black caverns. The Dammartin diligence had just started, and was lumbering after Touchard’s coaches. It was past eight o’clock. Under the wide archway, over which was inscribed on a long board, Hotel du Lion d’Argent, the stableman and coach-porters were watching the vehicles start at the brisk pace which deludes the traveler into the belief that the horses will continue to keep it up.
“Shall I bring out the horses, master?” said Pierrotin’s stable-boy, when there was nothing more to be seen.
“A quarter-past eight, and I see no passengers,” said Pierrotin. “What the deuce has become of them? Put the horses to, all the same.—No parcels neither. Bless us and save us! This afternoon, now, he won’t know how to stow his passengers, as it is so fine, and I have only four booked. There’s a pretty outlook for a Saturday! That’s always the way when you’re wanting the ready! It’s dog’s work, and work for a dog!”
“And if you had any, where would you stow ’em? You have nothing but your two-wheel cab,” said the luggage-porter, trying to smooth down Pierrotin.
“And what about my new coach?”
“Then there is such a thing as your new coach?” asked the sturdy Auvergnat, grinning and showing his front teeth, as white and as broad as almonds.
“You old good-for-nothing! Why, she will take the road tomorrow, Sunday, and we want eighteen passengers to fill her!”
“Oh, ho! a fine turnout! that’ll make the folk stare!” said the Auvergnat.
“A coach like the one that runs to Beaumont, I can tell you! Brand new, painted in red and gold, enough to make the Touchards burst with envy! It will take three horses. I have found a fellow to Rougeot, and Bichette will trot unicorn like a good ’un.—Come, harness up,” said Pierrotin, who was looking towards the Porte Saint-Denis while cramming his short pipe with tobacco, “I see a lady out there, and a little man with bundles under his arm. They are looking for the Silver Lion, for they would have nothing to say to the coucous on the stand. Hey day, I seem to know the lady for a customer.”
“You often get home filled up after starting empty,” said his man.
“But no parcels!” replied Pierrotin. “By the Mass! What devil’s luck!”
And Pierrotin sat down on one of the enormous curbstones which protected the lower part of the wheels from the friction of the axles, but he wore an anxious and thoughtful look that was not usual with him. This dialogue, apparently so trivial, had stirred up serious anxieties at the bottom of Pierrotin’s heart. And what could trouble Pierrotin’s heart but the thought of a handsome coach? To cut a dash on the road, to rival the Touchards, extend his service, carry passengers who might congratulate him on the increased convenience due to the improvements in coach-building, instead of hearing constant complaints of his drags, this was Pierrotin’s laudable ambition.
Now the worthy man, carried away by his desire to triumph over his colleague, and to induce him some day perhaps to leave him without a competitor on the road to l’Isle-Adam, had overstrained his resources. He had ordered his coach from Farry, Breilmann, and Co., the makers who had lately introduced English coach-springs in the place of
